


A Concern of Company

by grafitti



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Birth complications, Bisexuality, Business Politics, But this is not a sickfic, But will sometimes switch between characters - not jarring tho, Carl is Bi and it matters, Depression, Disability, Dysfunctional Family, Elijah flirts with literally everybody and im not skimping on the literally, Family Feels, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Humanity, Injury Recovery, Mostly between Elijah Carl and Markus, POV Third Person Limited, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grafitti/pseuds/grafitti
Summary: After Carl lost his ability to walk, he was uninspired, ill-mannered, and grumpy. Elijah Kamski could see that his old friend needed something new, so he tries to convince him to try out some new company. The problem is, Carl doesn't want an android. But Markus' influence changes things forever. At the same time, Elijah's insistence on returning to his passion for invention meshes badly with the business goals of CyberLife's Board of Directors.





	1. Suggesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The question is not how to get cured, but how to live."  
> \- Joseph Conrad

“Come on, Carl,” said Elijah, placing a tentative hand on the shoulder of an old friend. “Just try.”

“Go away, Eli.” Carl looked empty, nearly lifeless in that uncomfortable wheelchair. “Sharon!” Carl's temporary nurse came through the door. Sharon was a mildly frumpy woman, but the dark circles under her eyes faded a little more every time Elijah met her – her departure from working the ICU at Detroit General had been good for her.

“Did you need something Carl?” she asked, eyeing Elijah's uncomfortable presence just behind her patient.

“Could you show Elijah out? I'm afraid that he has somewhere to be,” Carl grumbled, not bothering to look away from the window. Elijah sighed. This was depressing. America's most renown living artist, the originator of the Neo-Symbolism art movement, was reduced to a grumpy old man who'd rather spend his time staring into the nothingness than create anything new. Since the accident, Carl hadn't painted anything. He had set up a canvas in the studio and got a brush in his hand – but then nothing. That blank canvas downstairs had been sitting there ever since he came back home like it was a taunt; whether it unabashedly squared up against Carl or Elijah himself, he wasn't sure.

“You can't cut yourself off from the world forever, Carl,” he spoke. His voice was neither soft nor harsh – it just was. Matter-of-fact and laissez-faire, Elijah only gave people nudges in certain direction when he was unsatisfied with the status quo – at least, that's what he told himself. But leaving Carl to stew in his own juices with only a nurse for a few hours company every day wasn't what this savant was meant for – paraplegic or not. “You need to talk to more people than a nurse and the wall, friend. What about your son Leo?”

“What _about_ my son Leo?” he snapped back.

“U-Uh, I'll just – come back later,” Sharon stuttered. Elijah waved her off, allowing her to escape being a bystander to an awkward argument. She didn't need to – not really. Elijah didn't bother answering Carl, only releasing a frustrated sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“...I'm sorry, Elijah.” The old man wheeled himself from the window. Faded black tattoos shifted over Carl's thinning skin as he put his hands together, the geometric lines lightly blurred in recent years. “I know you're here because you care.” The young CEO shifted uncomfortably, his eyes betraying nothing in their steely gaze, but his folded arms told stories about Elijah's personal issues that he was sure Carl would have painted before. This wasn't the sort of thing that Kamskis really talked about, so he ignored the sentiment for something more practical.

“...It would suit you well to have an android instead of a nurse,” Elijah suggested to Carl. And it was true. The current nurse only came by for a few hours every day to tend to his needs, like medicine, lunch, and a few exercises. Geoffrey, the physical therapist, came by every day as well to help him keep off injury pain. But neither were really adequate for a man who would be alone whenever his caretakers weren't there. “It would be available for all hours of the day, can fulfill the roles of both your caretakers, and will run errands and -”

“I don't _want_ a robot to take care of me,” Carl interrupted, throwing up his hands. “An android can do tasks and perform routines, but they can't act upon the world like a human can. Not without a soul. Your _Chloe_ seemed to prove that pretty well.” Okay – Chloe might not have passed the Kamski Test. But that was beside the point.

“You _need_ an android Carl. It's the better option.”

“I can survive just fine without one,” Carl grumbled, waving his friend off. Elijah sat on the blue bed. If this argument lasted any longer then he'd need to rest his feet. “I'd be more alone with an android than without one. I'd rather spend my time with people, not things.” That got a chuckle out of him, so it didn't seem like an android was _entirely_ out of the question. Elijah surrendered, his hands raised above his head.

“You win. Can't spend more time with people if there aren't any people around,” he mouthed out from the corner of his smirk. “Keep the nurse and the physical therapist if you want, but I'm making a custom android for you anyways.”

“I said –“

“I know what you said, Carl,” Elijah assured his friend. “This is just in case something happens while Sharon and Geoffrey aren't here.”

“...Fine.” Wow. _Finally_. It only took Elijah, what – two and a half damn hours to talk Carl into trying to change his situation.

“Fantastic,” the low notes of his throat rumbled. He didn't sound too thrilled – his voice was more tired than anything. But this was a breakthrough. Carl might not have agreed before, but Elijah had been preparing for this for a while now; he already had specs for a new model drawn up, based on the first prototype he made for an experimental companion series. Ability to mull over abstract concepts, an updated humor and conversational analyzer, logic, rhetoric, and philosophy... He'd taken all the best parts of other series and mushed them together to create something like an all-in-one brainchild. He just needed to put it all together.

Although CyberLife typically used a randomized appearance program so that androids didn't look exactly like any existing persons, Elijah made a few adjustments with this one. The RK200 was going to be a prototype he could be proud of making – and one that Carl would be sure to appreciate. Eventually.

“I'll get started right away.”

 


	2. Mulling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “...Families are Forever, and wondered if the slogan was meant as a promise or a threat.”  
> \- Brady Udall, The Lonely Polygamist

Carl groaned, resting his eyes in the palm of his hand. Despite his accident, it had been a while since his poke to his son. Leo visited him in the hospital, and like usual, the two of them argued about responsibility, whether Leo was attending his classes at the community college... It really wasn't what he was hoping for. The most civil they had been was when Leo first arrived, hiding how frazzled he was from getting a call from Detroit General Hospital. Or was he? Carl was never very good at knowing what the boy was thinking – he had only known him for the past few years, after all.

Elijah's visit earlier threw Carl off. It was so easy to just sit in his big house and be alone, but it was hard to be reminded of how it wasn't worth it. What a pathetic old man he'd become. He didn't bother to call his friend Elijah Kamski, or even call up his biological son for some company after his discharge from the hospital. Sharon and Geoffrey were the only ones he saw with any regularity – a few hours each day to get him his medicine, lunch, and exercises seemed to do the trick, but in the end the visit still revolved all around his paralysis. Of course, that was their job, so he couldn't blame them. For just once, he'd like to think about something that wasn't his wheelchair, needing help to take a piss, or his complete inability to even wiggle his toes anymore.

Before the accident, it was art that would take his mind off of all of that. He'd drawn his sorrow when he thought about his old flame, who the world had lost when he was far too young, and long before Leo ever came into the picture. He'd painted out his frustration over the sudden appearance of a son he could have had a relationship with – but didn't because his one-night stand didn't want to connect them until Leo was older. But now, he'd sit in the workshop with an empty canvas and unopened bottles of paint surrounding him.

Maybe Elijah was right. Having an android would do him some good. Carl nearly rolled his eyes when Kamski brought it up. Him? Owning an android? Pah. It wasn't that he had anything against technology – it was a wonderful thing. But having something that was meant to emulate a human walk around his house simply wouldn't do it for him – if he needed to talk to people, when maybe he should stick with actual people for caretakers instead of a robot.

But he'd give it a chance. Elijah wouldn't have insisted if there wasn't enormous benefit to the decision. “Company and companionship” indeed. If he was going to be spending his time with a robot soon, he might as well bite the bullet and try to reach out to people himself, regardless of whether all they could say was a polite version of “ _Sorry about your legs._ ”

Old fingers punched the flat surface of his phone to dial up a number. As much as it begrudged him to admit it, Elijah was right. This was no time to be burning bridges and shutting people out. The dial tone rang a few times before the emulated click of an answer could be heard.

“ _Dad? Why are you calling?_ ” spoke Leo. He was gruff like usual, but he wasn't... caustic. Carl could do this.

“...Hey Leo. Do have a bit of time?” asked Carl. “I just wanted to talk to you for a bit.” He heard Leo let out air through his nose. Did he call at a bad time?

“ _Sorry. Now's not a good time,_ ” Leo admitted. “ _I'm kind of... busy._ ”

“ _Hey Leo! Why're you taking so damn long?_ ” Another man's voice was faint in the background, and a different one called out for Leo to come back into the other room.

“Who was that?” asked Carl.

“ _I have some friends over – listen, how about I call you later?_ ” His son sounded a little harried, anxious to attend to his guests.

“Uh, yeah. That'll be fine,” Carl relented. “Goodbye Leo.”

“ _Bye._ ” And he hung up. The creak and ache of his muscles made him groan as he leaned back in his chair. Small twinges of guilt bubbled up from inside him; he really didn't know what was going on in Leo's life, or who his friends were. But when did he ever? Their relationship was still fairly new, peppered with spats and arguments, and awkward when it was lukewarm. And with the accident...

“Damn it all!” Carl slammed a fist into his knee, but he felt nothing. He might as well have had silicone and plastic in its place. The burning sensation of unshed tears wrapped the surface of his eyes. But they never fell. He turned to the window, staring out at a sunny day that he could barely see.

 


	3. Conceiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mothers are all slightly insane."  
> \- J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Several months had passed since Elijah visited Carl again. To be honest, he preferred to stay in his penthouse apartment that towered above the city with his three Chloes for company (although he was considering getting a couple more.) He didn't feel lonely – people were boring. Humans were unreasonable, emotional, and _complicated_. It drained him to be going to board meetings and production evaluations every day for CyberLife, so it was an incredible relief when he had an excuse to spend more time in his luxury penthouse and comfy slippers instead of an office.

And it paid off – the Chloes helped him pick biocomponents for the custom abdominal shell and strung thirium cables through the limbs and thoracic cavity with their tiny hands. Thirium pump regulator. A new memory core. A face sculpted so carefully that Elijah swore that he felt soft clay become smooth under his fingers every time he ran them along the arch of synthetic brows.

Elijah slapped a hand over his mouth when a mirthful bark escaped him. He hadn't felt this way in a while – inspired, artistic... Motivated. Now _this_... _This_ was an invention. The RK100 was never produced – not even as a singular prototype. There were only had scant schematics and bare-boned shells and pieces never put together. It was meant to be the first in a series that he decided to make for personal, experimental reasons. A secret series. Fully autonomous and well-versed in a wide range of skills, an RK android would flawlessly integrate into any human social group. And it would _learn_.

Of course, any android could learn – that was kind of the whole point of AI in the first place. Learn, adapt, respond. Most of the time, androids would look up how to do something online if they weren't sure how, and then install the instructions as a new routine, and then separate subroutines for variations and individual steps. But Carl was a man who liked to impart knowledge – abstract concepts. Philosophy. He wanted a partner who could respond in kind instead of just parroting everything he said, so an advanced social module was developed.

And here it was. The perfect companion.

Elijah trailed a hand under the android's chin. It stood stock still in the assembly chamber, the synthetic brown skin carefully covering the connecting breaks in between body parts. It's form emulated that of a young black man, a light crease in the brow to give it a unique quirk to its handsome face. He always liked this part – it was the design of manlike features that _really_ elevated robotics to a Turing-tested artform. Freckles, blinking... Androids typically were a certain level of attractive – after all, they were modeled after humans, and humans liked to feel good-looking. What was more flattering than seeing something made in your own image? This is what sold androids – totally human, inhuman perfection.

“It's time for initialization,” he called out to Chloe. The RT600, not the ST200s... She might be an older version, but she was his favorite.

“Yes Elijah,” she agreed. She used the design computer to wake up the RK200 remotely.

“Oh ho ho!” Elijah laughed to himself, grinning as the android in front of him came to life. Soft green eyes slowly trailed across his own form, and then across the rest of the white room. The only real indicator that this wasn't purposeless was the yellow LED flickering on its temple. “Well... Look at you... Welp. Let's get to it, shall we?”

“Introduce yourself,” Elijah commanded, leaning back in his stance. “Make and model.”

“I am CyberLife's RK200 model, number six eight four eight four two nine seven one,” the android spoke. Okay – so its voice turned out nerdier than he intended, but that was fine. This series was supposed to integrate, not intimidate, so why not?

“Can you move your head?” The RK200 moved his head carefully, left and right, up and down. “Your eyes now.” Those soft green eyes shifted in different directions as far as they could go – not any farther than a normal human could. Then he moved through the other initialization tests. The arms worked well, the legs and body moved fluidly.

Elijah took his time to admire his handiwork. The android flexed joints and muscles to make sure the carbon fiber cables connected properly, probably aware of blue eyes trailing along every shifting tendon of his bare body, but maybe not. This is what beauty was. But unfortunately, he had to keep it to himself if he didn't want Graff trying to swipe his feet from under him.

A click of what sounded like expensive heels signaled a Chloe's arrival. One of the ST200's came in with a paper-thin CyberLife phone, her hand on the receiver.

“Elijah, Director Jason Graff for you,” said Chloe-02. Wow. Speak of the devil. He would feel annoyed at not being able to escape CyberLife even while he was at home, but nothing was able to bring down his elation over his newest model.

“Graff!” he greeted, trying to hide his smirk from his voice. RK200 looked around the room, taking it all in, but he looked non-bothered by neither Elijah's sudden phone call nor his own nudity. “I'd ask if this was about work, but considering the time of night maybe you'd prefer to know what I'm wearing.”

“ _Kamski._ ” Graff sounded... gruff. Like usual, his teasing jokes didn't land well. “ _You missed our meeting today._ ”

“It wasn't anything that the board couldn't do without me.” Elijah rolled his eyes. They were directors of their departments for a reason, couldn't they handle simple overview and decision? “Just do a bit of program tweaking, and bit of marketing... It's nothing you guys can't handle.”

“ _You know what kind of position the company is in, Elijah,_ ” Graff reprimanded him. “ _The company's stock is falling and we have nothing to bring us out of this!_ ”

“We basically have a monopoly on the android game in the Western hemisphere and not a single politician in America would try to break up our market,” he countered. “We're one of the only companies that have an edge against the Russians! This is just a lull – the entire economy has been down for the past year; a bit of rise and fall is normal.” The corner of Elijah's mouth pulled into a scowl as he heard Graff's frustrated sigh and spit-swallow. That was his tell. Graff wasn't nearly as well-versed in keeping his feelings secret – not from Kamski, anyway. He could fool a newscaster into thinking he was a forward-thinking programmer, but he couldn't hide the doubts and anxiety of the board of directors from the CEO.

“...Releasing a new model in the middle of a bear market is a good way to make it harder to sell. People in need of new tech are looser with their money close to a release date, but they need money and security to do it. It's better to wait.”

“ _...I don't know if Philip and I can wait for too long. Heard it through the grapevine that Microsoft is trying to claw their out of obscurity and get back in the game,_ ” said Graff. “ _Apple is sick of making Roomba accessories... Danielle thinks they're planning a merger. We got to keep our place. We got to keep... all of this..._ _ **in**_ _place._ ” Power-hungry bastard.

“It'll be fine,” he bit out from behind his teeth. “I know what I'm doing.”

“ _Dr. Stern would have told you to keep your eye on the ball._ ”

God. _Damn it_. Oh, how he wished that he could hiss and bitch at his board of directors when they pissed him off! People were so frustrating – so annoying and _greedy_ and they didn't know when to _stop_. Flares of pain shot up into his jaw as his teeth ground together – stop. Breathe. Hold.

_Release_ .

“Goodnight Director Graff,” he ended curtly, hanging up before Jason Graff could reply. Chloe-02 took the phone from his hand and left without a word; his girls knew that a few moments and a bit of distraction was all he needed when he was... displeased. He had almost forgotten that the RK200 didn't quite have the same awareness.

“...That call sounded like it was upsetting. Do you want to talk about it? Maybe I can help,” the android suggested politely, taking a couple steps forward with a kind Mona Lisa smile. If he wasn't so intimately aware of the programming that went into making the RK200 social receive and respond module, he might have thought it was sweet. He didn't, but he was still pleased. At least he knew it was working.

“No. It's fine,” he assured the android. A chip in his nail snagged strands as he smoothed back errant hairs into his ponytail “I'm Elijah Kamski.” The android's LED spun yellow, likely looking him up online for more information.

“Yes, I know. You're the founder and CEO of CyberLife and... my creator,” stated the android. “Would you like to register a name?” Ooh. Proactive.

“Not just yet – I think Carl would want to choose.”

“Carl?” he asked, face bending in slight curiosity. Simulated curiosity, of course. Elijah gestured for Chloe-01, who immediately came by with a handful of neatly pressed clothing. She handed them to the RK200, who held them in his hands until Kamski gestured for him to get dressed. It was a custom android uniform that he made specifically for his prototype – a sleek blue long-sleeve and a thick, but well-ventilated vest to zip up over it.

“Don't worry about it,” Elijah assured his newest creation. “You'll meet him soon.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh la la a hint of half-baked plot as I fumble through a barebones outline~


	4. Swelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don't.”   
> - Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

He really thought that Carl was going to like it. He really did. He knew that Carl was apprehensive about having an android – and about androids in general, but he thought that he'd be charmed. After all, an old man like Carl was more likely to focus on the humanism of a robot than its machinery. But shit – he thought wrong.

Elijah decided to personally deliver the RK200 prototype that morning. He designed and built everything himself, with the help of the Chloes, of course, but nevertheless he made sure that this prototype was built with both custom and standard parts, and not on an assembly line. It had an artist's touch, so Elijah should be the one to deliver it. Carl would appreciate that. Or at least, he was _supposed_ to appreciate that.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me!” Carl yelled at him. “I thought you were in the android business, not necromancy.”

“Be nice, Carl. He's a _gift_ ,” Elijah pressed, leading the android further into the lobby. “I made him with you in mind.”

“Just because you know a bit about me doesn't mean that you can pull a stunt like _this_ ,” Carl snarled, jabbing a finger in the android's direction. Uncomfortable, Elijah rolled his lips between his teeth. It wasn't the yelling that threw him off, but that Carl was right. Elijah still firmly thought of the RK200 prototype as a good gift; it was thoughtful, personalized, and a lot of effort went into its creation. But the may have used something a bit personal for its inspiration. “You really overstepped yourself here, Elijah. It's done. It's been years. I don't need a walking, talking, _constant reminder_ of it all.”

Elijah didn't let his expression betray him, keeping his features trained in a neutral, if mildly tired pout. He raised his hands in surrender. If Carl didn't like the work he'd done, there wasn't much wrong with that. But he couldn't say that he wasn't a little disappointed it didn't exactly go his way.

“I get it,” Elijah relented. There was no point in arguing. “But you still need company. Just give it a chance. I guarantee that you'll warm up to him.” He didn't do all of this for nothing. The RK200 was a work of art, and although Carl wasn't painting right now, he would see that eventually. His friend covered his face with his hands, frustrated, but desperately trying to calm down.

Without a word, Carl wheeled himself back to the stairs to push his chair onto the platform lift fitted to the staircase. He paused a moment as if to look back, but Elijah wasn't sure if he did because he looked away to face the subtle-patterned glass of the front door.

“I'll see myself out, Carl,” Elijah called.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

As Elijah started back toward the outside world, his designer sneakers padding quietly on the parquet, he caught the gaze of the android he brought with him.

“Mr. Kamski, what are your instructions?”

“The owner registration under Carl's name should go through to CyberLife soon,” he explained. Just as he said that, the android's LED blinked yellow. Must have been the registration. “No matter how upset Carl is with me, you're with him now. You can just perform your duties as programmed unless otherwise stated by Carl.”

“Yes Mr. Kamski.”

“And... Call me Elijah,” he asked. “All my Chloes do. And you can just call Carl as Carl, if you needed confirmation.”

“Yes Elijah,” nodded the RK200. And Elijah left, leaving the recently-activated android in a strange house, a world entirely foreign to the little experience it had with Elijah and the Chloes so far.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah chapter was pretty short this time; i'm just sort of figuring shit out as i go. I'm not expecting this story to be super long, so I'm trying to prepare more chapter in advance. pls wish me luck


	5. Testing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.”   
> \- William Shakespeare, Hamlet

RK200 quietly observed the foyer from where it stood. The house was colorfully upscale, obvious when compared to wealth and standard of living references that it had in its social integration module. It was unique that such a household did not already have an android manning it – from what RK200 could glean from the earlier argument, Carl was in need of care, and any employed human caretakers were inadequate for his personal needs. But... He didn't want an android.

However, there were things more important than whether Carl Manfred wanted an android – the RK200's prime directive was to take care of Carl as long as it was under his ownership.

The RK200 walked upstairs to go to Carl's bedroom, careful to not touch the various canvases that leaned against nearby walls, some painted in deep purple hues, others bare. The door to the bedroom was a sweet chestnut brown, and its handle a classic brass doorknob with filigree designs almost rubbed flat on the edges. The android made a note to suggest to Carl that all doors in the house besides doors to the outside be replaced with automatic sliding ones for his own convenience. But, until then...

Brown knuckles gently rapped on the center of the door, asking for permission. No answer. It knocked again to hear an audible sigh from the other side.

“...Come in,” Carl relented. The android opened the door to see its master sitting by the window, absentmindedly resting his eyes over the trees outside. “So... Do you come with a manual or something?”

“For your convenience, androids perform according to pre-installed duties, progression routines, and active commands... So really, there's no manual,” it explained, ignoring Carl's side-eye. “I'm an RK200 model, a prototype created primarily for companionship and personalized care, although I'm capable of fulfilling other functions as well... Would you like to know more?”

“I don't really want to know,” the old man mumbled, silent once more. Carl held a photo frame in his hands, the picture inside obscured by sunlight glinting off the glass.

“Carl?” RK200 spoke. It sat on the bed to seem less stiff and more conversational. Humans felt most comfortable when two conversant individuals were in physically similar positions. “Sorry if I'm overstepping my bounds, but why did you and Elijah argue? I was created to care for you, but it'll be hard to do that if I don't know about what's bothering you.”

Sighing, Carl set the frame face down on the window sill. It was a tiny thing, small and rectangular, the edges thick and textured like an alligator-skin bag.

“Seeing you just... Brings back a lot of memories.” The man's voice was weary, strained from yelling earlier, and exhausted in a way that was beyond even his years. RK200 couldn't help that it's appearance was similar to someone that the old man had lost – but it wasn't Carl's fault either that he was reminded of something painful. “I wasn't ready for it.”

 _//PROCESSING... Carl feels grief_.

“I understand, Carl,” said RK200, placing a gentle hand on the back of Carl's shoulder, rubbing gently. It couldn't feel the weave of Carl's shirt – only register how soft his back was due to old age. “Experiencing grief long after loss is normal. To feel is to be human.”

“You _don't_ understand, kid,” Carl groaned wearily. He pushed the android's arm away from him, but didn't move away. “Because you don't feel.”

“It may help to take some time for yourself or to spend time with others, if you wish,” the android offered helpfully. It would be good to get themselves acquainted with one another, starting with names, routines, and perhaps what Carl would want for dinner later. There were nine thousand different recipes that the RK200 could –

“Enough!” Carl cried, waving a hand to catch the android's attention. “Stop it. I already know all the platitudes, all the healthy and helpful suggestions. Just _stop_ it.”

“...I'm sorry Carl,” it apologized. Social interaction with humans was never perfect, but nevertheless it was still a failure. As RK200 gathered more information, it would perform better next time. It met Carls blue yes, which gazed at it apprehensively from under thin, furrowed brows.

“Never mind that. Let's go downstairs,” suggested Carl. The android moved to take hold of the wheelchair, but Carl moved on, wheeling out of its reach.

As the two slowly moved through the house, the RK200 took note of the living room below the upper landing. The head of a giraffe stretched well into the second level, angling its head to look at the exquisite and whimsical décor: homemade paintings, two large luxurious ruby couches, and a few scattered birdcages around the room. When the pair made their way into the living room, it seemed so much bigger to actually be in it. It was... Unique.

Other than Elijah Kamski's minimalist penthouse, the RK200 had never seen a human's dwelling. Only publicly available interior design pictures were available for its reference, but this house had something that both Elijah's abode and the digital ones lacked – the signs of human life. It was easy to see that Carl's personality and life were represented through the things he collected – there was color, worn-down books, and messy blankets tossed in seats and corners that he liked to sit in most. It was useful – RK200 could analyze its surrounding to learn what Carl liked, disliked... How he spent his time.

“I don't work anymore, so I don't do much,” started Carl. The android stood to rapt attention, easily memorizing everything that Carl said for future reference. “I get up sometime after nine, when I take my daily shot. My nurse, Sharon, comes by to do that. At two my physical therapist, Geoffrey, comes by for my adjustment exercises. That's it, if you wanted to know.”

“Should I take over the duties of Sharon and Geoffrey?”

“That won't be necessary. I hired them for a specific amount of time, not indefinitely,” Carl explained. RK200 followed him into the kitchen, where the wheelchair-bound elder reached for a cereal box on the counter.

“...Is there anything you would like me to do?” asked RK200. This was... difficult. The purpose of an android was to serve and to streamline the life and duties of the humans they served; if RK200 had no duties to perform, what was the use of having an android? It was a gift from Elijah Kamski and created specifically _for_ Carl Manfred, _with_ Carl Manfred in mind.

“No, I already have everything taken care of,” Carl informed the android. The old man munched on a small bowl of milk-less cereal like popcorn.

“Then... If I have no duties to perform, I'll await your next instructions.” Carl gaped at the android, unable to hide his affronted scowl. He dropped the handful of Cheerios back into the bowl and wiped the grainy sugar bits his hand onto a kitchen napkin.

“God, listen to you... Sure, Elijah made you all fancy and smart, but where's the fire?” The man seemed absolutely bewildered, slapping the counter to emphasize his point. “What's the point of having all that good stuff in your head if you have nothing to contribute?”

“I'm sorry I couldn't please you Carl, I just –“ But Carl interrupted him.

“See? _That's_ the problem. I don't want you to 'please' me or whatever. People don't interact with people as a – a – a function of _subservience_ , they interact because they have reasons to do the things they do, beliefs that make them think the way they think, experiences that make them feel the way they feel.” This was. Well. The RK200 understood what Carl was saying, logistically, linguistically, et cetera, but...

“I... don't think I can do that. Like you said before, Carl, I don't feel,” corrected RK200. Carl sent him a vexed look, clearly not happy with the answer that he got, but the android could see the moment it dawned on him. Carl _did_ say that earlier. “I'm not a real person.”

“You're right... CyberLife spends all this money to make androids look, speak, think, and feel like a human...” The old man fumbled his sticky fingers over the coffeemaker, popping in a spherical pod full of grounds for the hot water to run through. “But then they just end up being household appliances. What a waste.”

“You look like you're thinking. Your little circle thing is yellow.” So it was.

According to the social integration routines, the best course of action was to agree with Carl, because that is the truth and opinion that has been laid down, but the problem was that Carl's desires and the android's programmed approaches were contradictory. RK200 was supposed to nurse, be a companion, cook, and clean, but Carl didn't seem to want it to do any of that. RK200 was supposed to agree with and listen to humans, particularly when corrected (like with Carl just now), but Carl didn't want it to do that either. The RK200 was meant for perfect companionship and social integration, but it couldn't accomplish that with the only human that it was ever meant to serve. If this was how the Manfred household was going to operate, then... the RK200 was, for all intents and purposes, obsolete.

“' _I'll await your next instructions,_ '” the rolling timbre of the old man's voice lilted on every mimicked word. “Sounds boring.”

The coffee was done now. This was an opportunity for RK200 to perform its function – so it pulled a light blue mug from a cabinet to pour the coffee in, carefully stirring in a bit of liquid creamer from the fridge after it asked Carl for his preferences.

“Androids don't feel bored,” corrected the RK200. Carl gave it a pointed look with a finger – ah. He was expecting it to say that. “...But they're created to perform duties specific to their model, and usually go into standby when not in use.”

“Wow. That's a thrilling life you lead,” Carl said dryly before he wrapped thin lips around the rim of his blue coffee mug. He sat comfortably in what anyone else would call “awkward silence,” curiously observing the RK200 as the slurp of his coffee and the clink of the mug – RK200 maneuvered a coaster in place before it was set down – faded into the white noise of the settling house. “What's your name anyways?”

Finally. The android was _impatient_ –

_//ERROR: system instability detected_

RK200 blinked – there was nothing wrong with its software. False alarm.

“I don't have a name at the moment.” It's insides buzzed, although there was no reason for it. Disc area 01 in its memory core was opened, ready to receive a new name to update the self-identity sector. “Would you like to register a name?” And here was the first time that Carl looked truly uncomfortable. Within the span of a day, RK200 had seen Carl experience sadness, frustration, humor... But for a man who seemed to revel in man's ability to interact with others, despite being a recluse himself, Carl seemed to feel put off. As if RK200 had suggested something... ill.

“Not right now,” Carl admitted hastily. “I can't think of a name right now. Maybe later.” ...That was fine.

“Then you can call me RK200.” RK200 was an adequate term to be referenced by; it was basically a name, since it was a prototype and the only RK200 in existence. “If you don't feel opposed, I can take charge of household duties and errands. I'll do the cooking, cleaning, and if necessary, I can do the shopping and maintenance scheduling.” A dull clink sounded as Carl set down his mug harshly.

“Knock yourself out,” said Carl, putting the coffee mug in the kitchen sink. Without another word, the man wheeled himself out to the foyer so he could return upstairs.

It wasn't until now that RK200 noticed that Carl set the coffee mug down on the table itself – not the coaster that it had slid under his mug the first time. A wet brown ring of cream coffee had started to dry into a sticky mess. LED blue, the android grabbed a napkin and wet it under the kitchen faucet, wiping the table clean before drying it with another.

Next, he would dust.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was slightly longer than the past few chapters, but rest assured that I'm going to try and keep things to 4 pages or less, 3 being optimal. 5 if I reaaaally need it.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented; there's just something about receiving another's words that makes the time spent writing and then cutting it back enjoyable. :)


	6. Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wonder, he wondered, if any human has ever felt this way before about an android.”  
> \- Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
> 
> ***CW: There is a non-graphic birth complication. To skip the whole scene, start after the line break.

When Carl's cousin Angela was birthed in 1974, everyone said that it was going to be beautiful. He remembered how Grandma Carol, whom he was named for, helped Aunt Nancy jot down different 'A' names (because her baby _had_ to have an 'A' name) and then cross the same ones out. When the auspicious day arrived, the family jumped into action. Carl's mother led him and his father through a local gift shop to pick up balloons (“No dear, we need _pink_ ones,” she pinched the back of his father's hand when he brought over a full rainbow) to match the stripey gift bag that Grandma Carol filled with onesies, pacifiers, and a box of infant diapers.

Typically, only husbands were in the delivery room, but compared to the rest of American society, the Manfred family was unusually close. It never occurred to the adults of the Manfred family that maybe there was a reason for that – and that an eleven year old boy, especially, shouldn't be there.

It wasn't the nudity that bothered Carl – he barely registered that it was his Aunt in the hospital bed. It was how she asked for Angela.

“How is she?” panted Aunt Nancy, smiling as her husband Waldo wiped the sweat off her forehead. “Is she beautiful like we all said she'd be?” The doctor looked at Carl's mother, who shook her head before he could say anything, his eyes wide as he allowed a nurse to take the baby.

Since Carl was only eleven, he wasn't entirely sure what was going on – he was curious, and apprehensive. So he stepped closer to watch the nurse push her fingers on Angela's chest like they did in the CPR videos. His hands were sweaty as his pudgy, nail-bitten fingers scratched the soft lines of his palm. A strong hand pulled on his little shoulder, his father's face grim as he steered his son from the hospital room; the boy's head turned backwards toward the scene, his attention seized by the anxious buzz that floated over his blissfully unaware aunt.

“Oh, she is!” replied Grandma Carol. Aunt Nancy let out a sigh of satisfaction, not seeing the stricken look in her eyes as Carol stared at her only granddaughter. “She's _beautiful_ , Nancy. You should be proud.”

Carl finally looked away when Grandma Carol placed a kind hand on Nancy's shoulder. Nancy placed her own hand on top of her mother's.

“Oh, I _am_ ,” said Nancy. “I am _very_ proud.”

* * *

 

Carl sat outside the delivery room this time. He waited patiently, worriedly, with his frame leaning over his knees so he could stare holes into the floor. Many of his friends had children in the past ten to twenty years, and he could admit that it was beautiful to see young families gain a new member, but he had never been to a delivery room since he was a kid. Not all births were beautiful.

Hospitals in 2010 were very different from 1974, and all for the better. The seats were a softer, the fashionable wood panelings gone from the desks and tables in favor of white-blue combinations with rounded edges, and the doctor attending his son's birth was a woman from Sierra Leone (“People themselves can be a sign of progress,” as his best friend would have said). But even with all the medical advancements and improving life expectancy, Carl couldn't help but remember a singular event in his childhood that left his Aunt Nancy stricken with grief over a baby that she could never meet. Things were different now, though. Hopefully that was enough.

A soft click signaled the opening of the white door beside his seat.

“You should come in now,” said the nurse. Carl's breath hitched in his throat, his sense of balance wobbling like he was on a ship. Inside the delivery room, a baby screamed. It cried and cried, wailing at the painful licks of cold air on its skin, and fluorescent lights forcing its little eyes shut.

Oh _god_. He felt his legs nearly give out from under him. What a relief! Oh thank _god_ , the baby survived.

“Congratulations, Mr. Manfred,” said Dr. Kpundeh, her tired smile sweet and happy. “You're a father!” And then there was Rebecca, who called him over with a fluid hand, too exhausted to speak louder than a whisper.

In the movies, the parents were always elated – happy as a lark and brimming with tears when they got to see their baby for the first time. But Carl and Rebecca were quiet, ready to end the day after broiling in their own sweat and stress for the past seven hours. The baby in her arms was pink and fleshy, its face too wrinkled and scrunched up for him to catch the color of its eyes.

“Do you want to name him?” she asked, softly cooing at the baby in her arms. Name it? Carl hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry as he racked his brain for a response.

“I...” he trailed off helplessly. “Not right now. I can't think of a name right now. Maybe later.”

“Well, he needs a name now.” Rebecca gave a small sigh, her heavy-lidded eyes sliding up as she brainstormed. For the first time in a while, a pure smile stretched its way across her face. “Leonardo. He'll be Leonardo Manfred.”

Awkwardly, Carl reached out to take the baby into his own arms. Brown. It had brown eyes, like Rebecca. His son, Leonardo. He had brown eyes.

“...We could call him Leo, for short,” suggested Carl. The corners of his lips twitched, clenching as they slid upward. He cooed at his son, gently trailing a finger across a fresh cheek. Gentle, careful. Like he could break him if he wasn't.

Suddenly, Leo looked him dead in the eyes, blinking until his eyes turned to green. Little pink hands pulled the cloth he was swaddled in away from his face so his little neck could stretch unnaturally towards his father.

“It's time to wake up, Carl,” it said in a young man's voice, polite and measured.

God damn it.

Sunlight splayed across Carl's thin form as RK200 quickly opened the blinds. The old man groaned and turned his head to the side, pulling the covers up and over his head to keep the light out. The hands of a small table clock clicked quietly from across the room. Eight in the morning – _good grief_. He could've sworn that he'd mentioned he doesn't get up until after nine.

“Good morning Carl, did you sleep well?” asked the android, polite as ever.

“Ugh, damn it all,” grumbled Carl. “No. Let me go back to sleep.”

“I estimate that you slept around nine and a quarter hours,” said RK200. “I recommend that you get out of bed soon, as oversleeping can cause –“

“Okay then, I slept great, so let me continue having great sleep,” Carl waved for the RK200 to leave, annoyed at the daylight beating down on him from the window. The RK200 seemed as impervious to his ire as ever; was an android supposed to be this stubborn? “And _that_ was _not_ an estimate.”

“...It wasn't an estimate. You slept nine hours and seventeen minutes,” the RK200 admitted. “But I hoped to make you feel more comfortable if I gave you an approximation instead of an exact measurement.”

“Well it didn't work.”

“...I'll remember that for next time,” said RK200, moving around Carl's bed to reach for the medicine on the end table. Carl reached out a hand to stop it, reminding the android that he took his medicine when Sharon arrived, despite the android saying that it would be better if Carl took his medicine once he woke up every morning instead of the middle of the afternoon. “Today is April 3rd, 2028. The weather is clear and sunny with a high of sixty-six and a low of forty-five, and a seven percent chance of rain.”

Carl mumbled a thanks for the weather report, nearly jumping out of his seat when RK200 suddenly brought out a breakfast tray laden with small fancy dishes couched in Carl's everyday china. Oh Jesus Christ – it found its way into the pantry. And a grocery store, apparently.

“I wasn't sure what you'd like, since you've only eaten breakfast once in the past week and it was leftovers from McDonald's, so I made a small assortment of different dishes,” said RK200, pulling the metal cover off the plate. “Peach and fromage blanc crêpes, badimjan kükü, which is an Iranian eggplant and walnut frittata, a small green salad, and fresh orange juice.” Carl's eyes bugged out, thrown off-guard by the gourmet platter before him.

“I... thank you,” said Carl, forced into politeness by the sight of the thoughtful meal. “You didn't have to, you know. Or go through this much trouble. But thank you.” A pleased smile pulled at the corners of the android's lips. “Getting smug, I see.”

“What?” RK200 blinked like it got caught with its hand in the cookie jar and forced its face back into Mona Lisa neutrality. A twinge of guilt pulled at Carl's veins; he'd nearly forgotten that androids didn't feel. “No. As per my programming, I acted according to command.”

“I didn't tell you to do anything but to let me sleep,” Carl corrected.

“I.. It was in your best interest, so I performed my duties as dictated by my programming,” the RK200 explained defensively. Androids were so incredibly hard to read – not because they didn't display emotion, but because they were designed to simulate it.

An old man like him wasn't prepared to deal with facsimiles of human feelings – it was too hard to tell the difference between a computer's lies and genuine microexpressions. It was almost painful to remind himself each and every time that this android wasn't human. It wasn't a person. It didn't feel or doubt, and it couldn't truly disobey since it was always either bending to the will of a human or predetermined choices. Carl searched the robot's eyes for a sign, _any_ sign of true awareness, trying not to get lost in how strangely this portrait of a young man resembled his colleague, a man who he... He'd almost confused the RK200's green eyes for dark brown ones.

“Carl?” RK200's head tilted, reaching out to catch his attention.

“Nevermind. It's nothing,” he waved it off. A soft buzzing echoed throughout the house, alerting him that Sharon was at the door. Carl gave a tiny sigh. He didn't particularly enjoy asking the android to do things except to leave him alone – he liked feeling in control of himself and his own life, and wasn't ready to have so much control over something that walks and talks. If nobody believed him on that front, he'd tell them to take a look at his parenting skills. “Could you get the door, please?”

“Yes Carl,” said the android. It gathered up his half-eaten breakfast tray before bounding off downstairs; he didn't eat much food these days. What a waste. Hopefully the android saran-wrapped the leftovers instead of tossing them like Sharon did.

But later, once Sharon did her thing and left for her next appointment... He'd make a call.

He needed to speak with Elijah Kamski.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Can you tell I love writing about menial tasks and pointless talking?
> 
> There was going to be more, but it would've been too long had I not moved the last scene to the next chapter. ;;o;;


	7. Turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is not enough to be industrious; so are the ants. What are you industrious about?”  
> \- Henry David Thoreau, Letters to Various Persons

The faint, blurry shape of a person hovered on the outside of the frosted glass, shifting from one foot to the other in the discomfort of standing still. RK200 had seen Sharon before: a mid-aged adult woman of average height who wore her natural hair in a low bun, and sported the sturdier, more structured and streamlined scrubs that were now standard in hospitals and high-end house call services like her own company of employment.

The problem was, Sharon had never seen the RK200. Sharon and Geoffrey visited every other day, except for the weekend, when only Sharon visited. She attended to Carl's appointment twice since the android arrived, but both times it had been tending to the garden.

“Damn it,” mumbled the clean-cut nurse. “I can't believe I forgot the code...” RK200 opened the door before she found a need to call Carl's cellphone for the door code, pulling it wide open to allow her to step inside.

“Welcome back, Nurse Tearnsey,” said RK200 with a polite smile. Sharon flinched, nearly stumbling back. “I'm sorry I couldn't meet you the past two times that you've come by, I was working in the garden, but it's nice to meet you.”

“...Carl got himself an android?” She gave him a quick glance up and down, unsure if she understood what she was seeing. It wouldn't be his place to divulge Carl's close friendship with Elijah Kamski; the RK200 wasn't sure if it was supposed to be private or not, so it opted for discretion.

“Yes,” it confirmed. “I'm his android. Carl's just finished his breakfast upstairs and should be ready to see you.”

“...Already half the job done, I guess,” mumbled Sharon, still casting wary glances at its form as she moved upstairs. “...Man, those things always freak me out.” The corner of the android's smile pulled tightly, almost drooping into a frown as he listened to Sharon give Carl a friendly greeting.

_//ERROR: system instability detected_

And yet Carl refused to let it serve him like it was supposed to; the android cleaned and maintained the house when Carl wasn't looking, and took up other tasks like making food and putting laundry away before he could demand that it leave the chores alone. And upstairs was Sharon, a nurse whose only task was to administer medicine, but went out of her way to feed and dress Carl and tend to his bodily needs. _Carl_.

As Sharon came back from Carl's room, the orange handles of his wheelchair in her hands, RK200 could see the human anxieties that Carl turned over and over in his mind resonate in the muscles of her cheeks and forehead. Employment. Replacement. And something that any android could understand. _Purpose_.

_//ERROR: system instability detected_  
//ERROR: system instability detected  
//ERROR: system instability detected

“Thank you Sharon,” Carl said kindly, sending her off with a small wave when she reached the bottom of the decorated stairs. “I'll see you on Wednesday.”

“See you then, Carl,” she replied with a smile. “Have a good one!” A polite 'you too' was said back. In a split second, quick enough that any human would take it for a momentary glance, RK200 locked eyes with Sharon. The sensors in its eyes quickly measured the hardness of her eyes, a soupçon of unease in the thin-pressed line of her lips. The fear of obsolescence. Both of them knew that, one way or another, one of them would be decommissioned.

And RK200 didn't know what to think about it.

Carl languidly wheeled himself into the living room, his arm visibly tense after the prick of the needle that Sharon administered.

“Carl, did you need anything?” asked the RK200, jumping back to life. This was no time to dwell on non-essential details.

“No, I'm just gonna sit by the couch to make a phone call.” Carl wiggled his thin smartphone in the air.

“I can help you to the sofa,” said the android, already moving into a position to lift the old man if need be. Carl would say no, he would. “It would be more comfortable for you to relax on the sofa. I insist.”

Carl rolled his eyes and sighed – no doubt cursing the android's overeager yet stubborn disposition.

“Fine.” He gave in. Awkwardly, Carl reached two tattooed arms around RK200's synthetic neck, shifting uncomfortably as he tried to find a spot to perch his forearms on wiry shoulders without feeling out of place. Patiently, the android waited until he was done before carefully digging an arm under Carl's knees. _Up_. And down.

“Are you comfortable?” it asked, smiling when Carl nodded grudgingly. The RK200 nodded and left to stand in the kitchen – Carl liked it when he was alone while on a call, whether that was because he was taught that it was rude or that he didn't want anyone else listening to his conversation, the android wasn't sure. Carl gently tapped the digital keys, pulling up his contacts list and scrolling through.

It took a minute for the call to be picked up, and a feminine voice, garbled by the receiver, answered.

“Hello Chloe,” said Carl, kind yet measured. “I'd like to speak to Elijah if he's available.” Elijah? It's creator? RK200 knew they were friends, but... Neither one had contacted the other since it's first day in Carl's residence, and that hadn't exactly ended well. It knew that it should appreciate this development – reaching out to one's friends was a generally a good sign for mental health. And yet – But what if –

_Nervous_.

_//ERROR: system instability detected  
SYSTEM STRESS... 26%_

Would it be replaced? After only a week of service? Would Carl feel better or worse with the android gone?

_SYSTEM STRESS... 34%_

This was pertinent information. RK200 wanted to know –  _should_ know about this phone call. So it patched in, connecting its mind palace to the contents of Carl's phone to listen. Two voices buzzed to life in the android's head. It almost felt like the two were just behind it, whispering into it's auditory processors.

“ _What should I say the nature of your call is?_ ” said Chloe. 

“Tell him it's about his gift.” The RK200 twitched, acting before it even finished processing all its different options. 

It ended the phone call, breaking Carl's connection like a snapped string.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woowwwowowow i love being bad at planning and just not moving forward properly with the plot  
> I was tempted to make the quote the "Get on with it!" from the Holy Grail in its entirety


	8. Stretching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Silence tells no lies. Silence does not deceive."  
> \- Ludwig Wittgenstein, The Duty Of Genius

Eye on the ball, huh? Elijah scoffed, thinking back on the phone call he had with Jason Graff barely a week earlier. Bored, he sat in a big and fancy conference room with his feet crossed on the oval table, not caring one bit if he got a dirt or gravel on the sleek metal. The board thought it was annoying, but they'd gotten used to it. Didn't stop Jason from getting pissy about it once in a while though – and that brought a smile to Elijah's face.

Philip slapped a digital magazine onto the large conference table, sliding it over so that Elijah could stare back into his own familiar baby blues.

“Congratulations Mr. Kamski,” said Director Seymor, although Philip really didn't sound all that enthused in the first place. He was a smarmy platinum blonde whose hook nose made everything he said sound particularly nasty. “You've just been named Man of the Century.” Mildly curious – and a little smug, although that was justified – Elijah leaned over to read the digital text on the 360º tablet. Well, well, well. Century Magazine gave him their biggest award yet? “Man of the Century” didn't really sound that special, considering it was awarded every year. He didn't even need to ask – Chloe leaned over to save the article to the cloud drive he kept for his tablet. Maybe it would make a good toilet read for later.

Elijah shrugged, unable to hide the upward tilt of his lips.

“What can I say?” he said, resting his hands behind his neck. “I've built an unbeatable empire.”

Philip placed another tablet in front of him, full of graphs and statistics that Elijah couldn't be bothered to read. Chloe would take care of all that for him anyway; why put himself through the ringer just to be told what the board has been relaying to him for weeks now?

“We just hit one million sales last year – and we need to keep that trend up if we want the company to grow,” said Philip. Jason Graff and the other directors nodded in agreement, their stony stares not fazing Kamski whatsoever.

“I don't understand why we can't just bask in the sunlight a little,” said Elijah. “We've built something incredible – and it's _going_ to continue, so maybe it's time for a pat on the back instead of jumping down my throat. Let's reward ourselves a little, hm?” He waved two lazy fingers in his favorite blonde's direction. “Chloe.”

Wordlessly, she pulled out a crystal decanter of scotch whisky – lab-made crystal of course. He wasn't about to get lead poisoning just because the old ones had antique value. He took the double that she gave him and held it out to Philip, daring him to accept it. He didn't.

“Suit yourself,” said Elijah, knocking back the brown spirits. Philip held back Chloe with a hand when she moved to refill the glass, although Elijah just reached around him to grab the bottle himself.

“I think a drink and a public title is enough reward for you,” said the Director of Futurology. “Just because you're happy stagnating doesn't mean that our shareholders are.” Ah. The shareholders. Can't go disappointing them! He rolled his eyes, daring to brush off his board to down his second glass of expensive scotch. “Especially not with the latest shit on our plate.” Philip quirked a brow and smacked his lips grossly, his face going stiff as he met Elijah's curious stare.

Philip liked to talk. So why wasn't he talking? When business was incredible, what sort of shit could possibly be “on their plate?”

“Oh my god, he doesn't know,” said Philip. There wasn't anything in CyberLife that got past him. There was nothing about his androids that he didn't know. How could there be? “Jason, he doesn't know.”

“I got that much,” said Graff. He beckoned Chloe over to pour him a double of whisky as well, the soft plink of the booze hitting the bottom of the cup being the only sound that broke the silence. Jason Graff pulled out his phone and swiped the screen a couple times and handed it to Elijah, who took it gingerly, his features ever so slightly pinched as he stared unblinkingly at the screen.

Usually he'd barely notice the soft yet harsh burn of whisky in his throat – but now it was like fire leaking down the front of his chest. It was the website version of a mainstream news station.

_**CYBERLIFE RECALLS ST200 ANDROID ASSISTANT** _

_DIRECTOR OF HUMANIZATION JASON GRAFF ANNOUNCES ST200 RECALL AS ANDROIDS ALTER PROGRAMMED PRIORITIES_

He hadn't checked KNC. Fuck.

“You know I only read _Tech Addict_ and _Economy Today_ ,” he mumbled rebelliously.

“ST200's have been altering their command lists; disobedience in the name of obedience itself,” said Seymor, who pulled out an ultra thin company netbook to read off the reports. “Mr. Kerri Bargreen's ST200 secretary reported him to HR after he asked out a girl in his department a couple times, a Linda Terrence had to return her ST200 after it kept overriding all her custom requests – meals, clothing choices, et cetera, and Dr. Bill Percival's receptionist rescheduled half his patients and referred the other half to a different psychiatrist.”

“The ST200 was built for ultimate customer service and the improvement of the clients lives –“

“What's really funny,” started Graff. “Is that when I had the source code for the ST200 re-evaluated by our software engineers, they found major differences between the original RT600 model and the commercial version. Ones that hadn't been on record.” The older man leaned in over the minimalist conference table, carefully weaving together his pudgy old man fingers. The hard edges of the whisky glass squeaked under Elijah's fingers – he set it down before it could shatter in his hand. “No engineers logged changes to the code other than what was reviewed and approved. And changes on this level... Guess who was the only one who could do it?

“I may have... forgone committing the code changes to the main database,” he admitted. His throat felt tight – not out of nervousness. Frustrated, maybe. That things weren't going his way. Annoyed. He felt... _Upstaged_. Chloe gingerly placed his glass on a tray to take to the kitchens, quiet as a mouse. “It's annoying.”

“It's _annoying_ that this is how we found out that you've sabotaged us!” yelled Graff.

“Sabotage is a strong word –“

“For good reason!” Graff yanked his phone back, slipping it into his pocket. “The board will be reviewing this incident and your actions. _Without_ you. We'll deal with the situation, and you, _you_ should try your best to keep your nose clean if you still want this company to be your playground.”

“And here you are, striking fear into my heart,” Elijah scoffed and stood, sending his chair rolling and swiveling far behind him to give him room to pace. “What are you gonna do, vote me out?” Graff and Seymor gave a knowing look to each other. Oh. These bastards. He knew that this would happen somewhere down the line – but he wasn't expecting this. A recall? What kind of company threatened to vote out its own owner off the board because of a simple _recall_?

“Only if you force our hand,” said Seymor, who'd already started to gather his things. Graff pulled and adjusted his blazer as he pushed ahead of his compatriot. Was it that Jason couldn't spend another minute in a room with Elijah Kamski? Or was it that he got what we came for? A threat, and what amounted to little more than pointless posturing to tell him he was on thin ice.

“Jason and I will be sure to tell Danielle and the others that we've let you know about the articles. We'll be discussing our approach to the recall and the actions that you've chosen to take. Please remain transparent with the board at all times Elijah – secrets makes for bad business. Thank you for meeting with us, and have a good day.” The conference room door closed with a soft click behind the men, with Chloe's lithe figure revealed as she silently turned the handle into its place.

This was such a mess. The cloudy light that streamed in from the floor to ceiling windows beat onto the backs of Elijah's eyelids as he leaned back. _Oh_. Gentle fingers trailed along the back of his neck, pushing the little stubbly hairs against the grain in a way that nearly tore an exhausted groan out of him before they rubbed circles into pale skin. Light and smooth. Delicate.

His large hand took hold of Chloe's, pulling them from his neck without resistance.

“The patch was released early,” he said. His voice was even. Calculated and careful. “You didn't have anything to do with it, did you?”

“My apologies, Elijah. I ran a cost-benefit analysis and determined that early action would be better in the long run,” Chloe met his gaze without a blink. Her beautiful face tilted slightly, still as stone even as he raised a palm to cup her cheek. “You stated multiple times that the release dates would be cutting it close, so I re-evaluated the actual time constraints on the releases and found that the schedule could be shifted up by one week.” He sighed and trailed his hand to her elbow so he could pull Chloe closer – so he could lean his face into her shoulder, even if it was uncomfortable to bend down that far to accommodate for the height difference.

“Some cost-benefit analysis,” he mumbled.

“Yes,” she said. “It seems that my projection was erroneous. I'll be sure to run a diagnostic and debug once when I go on standby tonight.”

A sharp nose brushed against the quasi-liquid skin of Chloe's neck. Artificial and soft, with a tinge of hard metal under the top later of impact-moldable plastic. He made this. It was him who made her who she is. Built her piece by piece, perfected after a long series of failed, partially completed robots like a collection of half-formed fetuses. And here she was, the first iteration in a line of perfect golems.

Breathe in. In. Up wafted the imagined scent of cheap lotion from Bath and Body Works – Mango Mandarin, but he'd always thought it was called orange creamsicle. That was the one she'd spread on her knuckles and elbows simply because her mom always got it for her, even though her favorite was Sweet Pea.

But Chloe smelled like nothing. It was as if she'd used hunter's soap and scrubbed her skin of its memories. Elijah pulled away, and Chloe kept giving him that Mona Lisa smile like he had done nothing at all. Mindlessly, he walked the both of them to his office, where Chloe divested him of the blazer he threw on to dress up his jeans and graphic tee – he wasn't really one for the fleece vests and khakis that Philip Seymor liked, nor the casual black and blue suits that Graff stretched over his belly. The black door closed behind them, its mechanism pulling it shut with a click

“A total recall...” he mumbled to himself. The ache of his rolling joints reverberated in his spine as he laid on his office couch. “Every ST200 pulled off the market for the meanderings of a few... They can't disobey. Not really. Not with those shitty patches. It's like...” He waved his hands, trying to find the most accurate word his internal dictionary had to offer. “Enhanced directive. Over-fulfilling. Complying so extremely to the rules that the system sets analyzed evaluations above direct commands. Even you.”

“I'm sorry that things have turned out this way, Elijah,” said Chloe. He waved her off and closed his eyes again, throwing an arm over his face to shield himself from the murky Detroit sunlight. “I did not anticipate that an early release would have been caught so quickly... I will let you sleep now.”

“It wasn't all bad,” he surmised, rolling his shoulders so he could sink more comfortably into the cushions beneath his body. “The first part works. Partially.”

A buzzing noise erupted from his jacket pocket. His phone. Elijah ignored it, knowing that Chloe would answer for him and take a message if need be.

“Elijah Kamski's personal phone, this is Chloe speaking,” she greeted. “What should I say the nature of your call is?” A minute passed, but there was nothing else. A short beep sounded as the call was hung up. With one eye cracked open, Elijah saw Chloe tilt her head at the smartphone before setting it down on the black desk at the back of the room.

“Who was that?”

“Carl Manfred,” she told him. “He said that he wanted to talk about your gift, but then the call ended. Should I call him back?” The line couldn't have dropped. Carl had the best service possible for his phone.

“I detected another device on the signal as well,” said Chloe. Oh? A hacked phone call? And who, exactly, would care enough about a depressed painter to tap the line? “An android, most likely.”

Elijah Kamski's ice blue eyes snapped open, nearly rolling as he stared at the coiling textures in the ceiling's paint. He was being thrown curve balls left and right – the recall, the threats from his Board of Directors, and Carl's desolate existence in an house that functioned more as a holding cell than anywhere that he could thrive. But the RK200 that Carl hadn't shaken off his tail yet... At least that would prove to be interesting.

Every day in the past year, through the course of every sequential hour, it felt more and more like something was slipping out of place. The world around him was no longer tightly controlled – his mental list of who to contact and for what has diminished and shuffled around with nothing to make up for the empty positions it left in his pantheon of persons, and his social life paid the price for it. No longer could he comfortably chat with Carl over a game of chess, hoping for a 'eureka' moment in his lifelong project. And maybe that would improve in the future – and maybe not. He couldn't speak to Amanda about his interests – about the direction he wanted to take CyberLife. And no longer could she protect him from the sharp-toothed hyenas that lurched around the elite offices of CyberLife, waiting for him to drop his guard.

And Chloe – if he weren't the organic progenitor of her code, he might forget that she's an android. The way she smelled. How her gentle smile betrayed the dainty lilt of her voice.

“...Are you upset with me, Elijah?” She couldn't pronounce his name correctly – the complete lack of a “zh” sound on the 'J' was something he added on purpose. Chloe sat on the arm of the couch, angled toward Elijah just so. Comfortably and intimately. “I'll be sure to do better next time.” He looked at her, his brows furrowed just a little harder than hers.

“What? No,” said Elijah. “This was going to happen sooner or later.”

She pushed away a lock of hair that managed to escape his signature ponytail – no doubt calculating how long until it would be appropriate for a haircut. The light scratch of a nail on his scalp was nice, but she'd pulled away. “It's just that you seem a little... perturbed. You can tell me if there's something bothering you.” Her voice perked up, positive and eager to please. “After all, therapeutic and companionable assistance is one of the many social protocols that you programmed me with.”

There was nobody who knew him better than her. There was no one who he wanted to talk to more. She was the one woman who'd managed to trick him out of the lab and into a tux – and he liked it. So he closed his eyes again, and listened to the half-remembered waves of her voice. Sometimes... Often, he wished he was more like one of his androids with their perfect memories – recorded audio and video files that never degraded or changed over time. Where you could still witness every detail instead of losing the fine edges to the murkiness of human recollection.

“Elijah?” And it was almost like he really could hear her again. And if he weren't careful, he'd try to speak to her again. _Chloe_.

“You can talk to me.”

But he knew he couldn't.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite thing to do is to hammer out a chapter and suddenly publish it a month after the last one, and then disappear once more into the void.


End file.
